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Inspiring Voices - Lorene Masters

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106 pages

English

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Hungry Heart is filled with the honest searching of a girls coming of age and beyond, looking for love and acceptance. At times the journey to adulthood is seen through revealing journal entries and poetry; at other times it sounds the desperate inborn cry of the human heart from infancy to adulthoodthe need to be loved and cherished. Hungry Heart tells the story of the search for love through food, men, more food, more men, and finally finding the hunger quenched by the greatest love of all.What I remember most about Lorene is that she always had a smile on her face no matter what the situation was. It was hard to tell if she was on top of the world or hurting terribly inside. She was never unkind to anyone, even those that didn't treat her well. I truly believe she has a spirit that cant be broken. I know there was a lot of pain in those days but she never let it totally defeat her. It is very evident now that she has raised above all that to become very successful and works tirelessly to inspire others. Mark Perkins, Director of Bands and Technology, Scranton High School, Scranton, North Dakota.

Informations

Publié par	Inspiring Voices
Date de parution	19 mai 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781462409631
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0240€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Hungry Heart

Copyright © 2014 Lorene Masters.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Cover by Alyssa L Tanner

Inspiring Voices books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Inspiring Voices
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.inspiringvoices.com
1 (866) 697-5313

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0962-4 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4624-0963-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908239

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 5/14/2014

Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Chapter 1 Baby Beginnings
Chapter 2 Becoming Fat
Chapter 3 Growing Up
Chapter 4 Seventh Grade
Chapter 5 Derek
Chapter 6 Repercussions of Reality
Chapter 7 Unfaithful Lover
Chapter 8 Selling My Soul
Chapter 9 The Release
Chapter 10 Moving On
Chapter 11 Summertime Blues
Chapter 12 Searching Deeper
Chapter 13 More Counseling
Chapter 14 On the Air in Spokane
Chapter 15 Setback
Chapter 16 My Wonderful Counselor
Chapter 17 Layers
Chapter 18 Let Healing Flow
Chapter 19 The Sensitive Overeater and the Sensitive God
Chapter 20 Letting Him In
Chapter 21 Walking in Reality
Chapter 22 Telling Others the Truth
Chapter 23 The Dance of Love
Chapter 24 The Love Limo
Chapter 25 Hungry Heart Today
Bibliography
About the Author

Acknowledgments
Thank you to all my friends and family who have been there for me through thick and thin, in laughter and tears—you know who you are.
Thank you to all my old friends in Scranton, North Dakota. You always make it so easy to pick up where we left off. And a special thanks to Mark Perkins, Paul Ohm and Darcy Stafford for helping me remember and giving me happy memo ries.
Thank you to my beautiful daughters. It’s cliché I know, but you are the wind beneath my wings and my reason for each day.
Thank you to Leslie H. Stobbe for your invaluable critique and encouragement. Your kind words were truly a light in the darkness fo r me.
Thank you to Alyssa L. Tanner at ALTIllustration.com for the wonderful cover i mage.
Thank you to Jesus Christ the heart healer and heart filler—the one who will never leave us or forsake us, who heals all our diseases and gives us strength for the journey, loving us more than we can ever know.
And finally, to all those who still suffer the pain of an eating disorder—do not giv e up.
Help is on the way.
The names have been cha nged.

Introduction
Though I tried, I could never get far enough away to ever want to come back.
I knew. It seems I always knew. I was not wanted, totally unplanned for. Loretta was wanted. She was beautiful. Everyone said so. But I was an accident, they said, deposited into a world of not enough. Not enough love. Not enough money. Not enough time. But time has a way of slowing down when we finally quit running from ourselves and look within, discovering that enough love, more than enough love, can be found. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you how my search for love began and why this incessant hole in my heart was so deep and unyiel ding.
I was born in a small town in Montana, the seventh of eight children. My dad worked long hours as a railroad depot agent for the Milwaukee Road. My mother, in order to make ends meet, in addition to caring for the kids, was forced to take jobs waiting tables in the local cafe or cleaning hotel rooms. We were poor but I never recall going without food. Mom saw to that.
Due to the frequent moves my dad’s job required—twenty-two times in thirty years—we had a home on wheels, a ’65 Detroiter trailer house. Mom hated it; she hated dad for dragging her all over North and South Dakota. She despised the constant stopping and viewing of new “modular” homes with never any real intention to buy. Knocking on the cheap paneling and finding it hollow brought a sneer of disgust from her lips for trailer houses and the man who was smitten with this economical way of li ving.
Mom’s discontent released in frenzied rage, as she and Dad fought with increasing severity and duration each year. Plates were thrown; legs were kicked with the sharp points of cowboy boots until black-and-blue bruises appeared. Kids ran down the hall screaming, begging Dad not to hurt Mom, clasping their hands tightly over their ears to block out the fighting, seeking whatever shelter could be found in their bedrooms. We remained hidden while the neighbors called Jim the cop, too embarrassed to be seen by the officer who had kids in the same grade as us at sc hool.
“Are you kids, okay?” he’d ask, walking down the narrow hallway, looking into one of the tiny bedrooms sandwiched on both sides of the fur nace.
“Yes, we’re fine,” we’d quickly respond. We just want to have a normal life so please don’t notice us, all r ight?
Finally the inevitable day came when Mom took every single one of dad’s possessions and threw them out of our rickety screen door, emblazoned with a regal looking “M,” scattering them across the dirt we called our front lawn. Dad simply picked up his things one by one and packed them into the family car, a ’65 Volkswagen Bug, and drove away.
As I watched him leave I imagined Jimmie Rodgers’s “Train Whistle Blues” blaring from his eight-track player, reinforcing his feelings of despair. A Folgers coffee can on the floor at his feet that was quickly filled with used Skoal chewing tobacco as he spewed out thirty-eight years of marriage. I saw his car cross the railroad tracks whose scheduled freight trains had kept him employed—his excellent record keeping earning his bread and butter and feeding his children for too many years to count. As former guardian of the tracks, I wondered if he could still fondly hear the trains’ whistle in his mind.
And then suddenly, I stopped imagining as reality hit.
It was over. I knew that he would never return. Mom had finally got her way. They could not live together any longer. The last two kids were almost grown anyway. Dad was simply not needed any more; his welcome was long worn out. The train whistle slowly faded from my memory as tears fell at what was and what would never be a gain.
I was seventeen and in the beginning stages of a sixteen-year eating disorder that would cause me to beg God for death time and again. My mind was Satan’s playground. I felt powerless to overcome the compulsion to overeat. Completely unable to relieve excessive food of the role of attempts at loving me and giving me what I never had: a reason to live.

CHAPTER 1
Baby Beginnings
By you I have been upheld from b irth;
You are he who took me out of my mother’s womb.
Psalms 71:6
“I’m tired of you bringing those pop-eyed babies home from the hospital! No more, I tell you! No more!”
My dad’s voice accelerated in anger as he tied my mother’s hands to an old oak tree with a dirty, white rope. Perspiration from the late fall sunshine matted Mom’s short, dark hair to her face in sweltering globs. The yellow, cotton housedress she put on that morning clung revealingly to her body, as her mind fought to block out the pain, cocooning itself around her unborn child. Every anguished cry gave voice to her attempt to shelter the baby from the blows to her belly my father used to unleash his fury at the swelling of yet another mouth to feed.
“Please, please don’t hurt the baby!” Babies gave Mom reason to get up in the morning. They gave her someone to love and someone to love her. The endless requirements of caring for a child took her mind off of everything she didn’t have.
I replayed this scene over and over again in my mind, imagining the lonely agony my mom must have felt that day as the new life inside of her was threatened. My emotions traced the fear in her heart, knowing that the announcement of another pregnancy would have quite a traumatic impact on her relationship with my dad.
It seemed to me that Mom thought babies gave my father a reason to drink and stay away from home. His absence seemed to indicate that babies were just too much for him, especially when they transformed overnight from squalling infants into energetic two-year-olds running underfoot. My dad remarked once that he only wanted one or two. Pity the child who was baby number seven. Pity every child who was unwa nted.
“The baby is small, and there are complications,” the doctor told my mother in the maternity ward of St. Luke’s Hospital in Miles City, Montana, three months after that violent fall morning. “She appears to have breathing difficulties, a type of asthma, and a thyroid malfunction. She’ll have to stay in the hospital for a few days so we can monitor her condi tion.”
So Mom packed her bag and went home to Marmarth, North Dakota, without me. They called me Laura, a name that I later found out meant “warrior” and “she who weeps.” Both would be true in my life in equal amo unts.
A few weeks later I was released from the hospi